


Look Closer

by dragonflies_and_dalmatians



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2860169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonflies_and_dalmatians/pseuds/dragonflies_and_dalmatians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sybil has lived her life in the shadows of two women. Spoilers for S3 and the 2012 Christmas Special, pure AU future-conjecture after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look Closer

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Downton Abbey belongs to Julian Fellowes, I just wrote this for fun with no copyright infringement intended. 
> 
> A/N I: I wrote this fic after the 2012 Christmas Special when I was full of high hopes for a Mary/Tom pairing. I always seem to return to them after the Christmas Special and this year is no different, and while I add another chapter to my 'Morning Walk' I thought that I would share this fic here, since I haven't done that. I hope you like it. 
> 
> A/N II. When I wrote this story I didn't know that Mary and Matthew had called their son. I now know that its George but for the purposes of this story, its Matthew. I hope you enjoy!

Sybil has always lived her life in the shadow of her mother.

She doesn’t say it to be cruel to her beloved father (it isn’t his fault, and how could she be so cruel to the man who loves her so hard and so well?), or to garner attention (her Aunt Mary says that attention-seeking is her Aunt Edith’s speciality, even after all this time), but because it’s true: she has lived her life in her mother’s shadow.

It doesn’t help that they share the same face and same name; it would have been easier, Sybil muses sometimes, if her father’s broken heart had let him call her something else, something where every utterance of her name didn’t bring that bittersweet smile to her father’s handsome face and send the Crawley’s running for their handkerchiefs and smelling salts. She cannot help the face, though. It is a lovely face, to be sure (her Aunt Edith says that Sybil has inherited her lack of modesty from her Aunt Mary, even after all this time), but it’s her mother’s face that bears down on her each time she looks in the mirror. Her complexion is fairer, her hair a shade lighter, her eyes a different colour (her beloved father has given her so much, but his eyes are one of the best gifts of all), but her face is all her mother.

Her father has never remarried, which makes her mother’s shadow all that much longer and darker. It would be sweet if it wasn’t so desperately tragic. It makes Sybil sad, to think about him being alone after all this time, alone the way Mary is and Edith is not. Her youngest Crawley Aunt lives in London with a newspaper editor – unmarried, no less, but in love all the same. Happily unmarried, Mary says with a shake of her head and the twitch of a smile. They visit, sometimes; Edith brings tales that make Sybil’s eyes and heart grow wide with the promise of adventure, and they talk politics with her father long into the night when everyone else has gone to bed and the fire crackles and pops and the smell of scotch is in the air.

“You’re so like Sybil.” Edith always sighs, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “Remember what she was like, Tom, about women getting the vote?”

“My little firecracker.” Her father says, and his eyes are wet and Sybil can never tell just which of his Sybils he’s talking about.

“She doesn’t just get her interest from Sybil, Tom.” Mary says. “You’re quite the firebrand yourself. It’s one of the things my sister loved about you, if I remember correctly.”

The woman who has helped Tom raise Sybil doesn’t glance up from the newspaper she’s reading, but it’s when Mary pretends that she isn’t listening that she hears everything. Sybil’s convinced that her Aunt has eyes and ears everywhere in Downton, spies that catch every harsh and kind word, every look, every smell, every sight. How else would she know that it was Matthew who broke the china in the dining room when they were playing as children, or it was Sybil who went into Mary’s dressing room and moved all her favourite things? Her Aunt Mary has ruled Downton (with the help of Sybil’s father, although neither of them would ever admit it) for years; she knows all the secrets.

Sharp brown eyes finally glance upwards, finding Sybil’s father’s and holding them. Mary doesn’t look much like Sybil’s mother, but there’s something about her porcelain complexion and fierce stare that make it difficult for anyone to look away.

Her father smiles that special smile he has, swirls the scotch in his glass. “Guess politics is in the blood.”

“I hope not.” Mary’s son Matthew pipes up, giving Sybil a wicked smile. He’s fourteen, a year younger than her, but looks older and Sybil knows she isn’t the only woman to have noticed. “I find the whole thing rather boring.”

“Well, you won’t always.” Mary has resumed her reading. “Or at least, I should think not. There’s always some sort of trouble to draw young men from their homes and sends them to far-off places to die for king and country.”

“Gregson’s friend from Cambridge is back from abroad, Mary – the one I told you about.” Edith gives her sister an encouraging smile. “He’s staying with us in London; you should come and visit for a few weeks.”

“Oh Edith, is this another attempt to introduce me to another ghastly suitor?” Mary sounds bored, but Sybil notices that her Aunt’s hand trembles just slightly. Sybil worries about her Aunt Mary being alone, but not as much as her Aunt Mary worries about Edith’s attempts to persuade her to remarry.

“There isn’t anything ghastly about Timothy.” Edith looks and sounds indignant.

“What, do you mean aside from his name? I bet he’s the kind of chap who talks of nothing but ponies and polo and takes his summers and winters in South America kicking balls around with a long stick. Papa would turn in his grave if I let someone like that cross the threshold, never mind anywhere else.”

Sybil catches her father smirking into his glass, but stays silent until Edith implores him for help. “Tom, can’t you say something to her?”

“And say what, Edith?” Tom catches Edith’s gaze, gives her an indulgent smile. “What makes you think she’ll listen to me?”

“Well she won’t listen to me and I’m her sister. You know she listens to you more than anyone else.”

“I’ve never listened to you, Edith. Us being sisters has nothing to do with it.” Aunt Mary smiles her warmest, most dangerous smile. What scares Sybil more is that her father has told her that Mary has mellowed a lot in recent years. “Now let us talk of other matters before you bore us all to death.”

“Don’t waste your breath, Edith.” Tom says as he catches Edith before she can retort. “We all know that Mary won’t leave Downton unless it’s in a box, with no-one but Matthew’s ring on her finger. That’s what the English upper classes do, isn’t it?”

Mary sounds bored when she says, “Well in that case, Tom, you’ve adjusted to our way of life quite well, wouldn’t you say?”

###

Sybil’s about to retire for the evening when there’s a knock. Her father’s face appears around her door. “I’m not disturbing you?” He looks tired, but he often does after Edith’s visits. Sybil finds her Aunt easy to talk to; both her father and Mary say Sybil’s like her mother, that way, although Tom’s eyes are always sad when Edith leaves. Despite everything, he misses his sister-in-law, too. Sybil sets down her brush, gives her father her best smile.

“You never disturb me, father.”

His smile widens but gets sadder than ever. “There’ll come a day when you won’t say that.”

Sybil slides her arm around her father’s shoulders and hugs him tightly, the way she never saw Mary or Edith do with their own father. It saddens her, the thought that they do not love as freely as she and her father do but then, she and her father aren’t Crawleys. They might all call Downton Abbey home, but they are different, in their many ways

“And how could I ever love any man as well as I do you, father?”

Her father takes her hands, kisses them. “Sybil, some day you will meet a man who will love you as well as you deserve, and you will take his breath away with how much you love him. And I will be the happiest and the saddest man on earth, the day that happens.”

They sit together on the bed, talking of things inconsequential to anyone but them. Her father tells her of a new novel he has been reading, excitement shining in his eyes. Reading and writing have always been his retreats away from Downton and from life. He’s like her grandfather was, in that way. Eventually, Sybil’s eyes begin to droop and she retires to bed, her voice sleepy when she says, “Will you ever love someone as much as you loved Mama?”

“I love you, Sybbie.” The flickering light makes her father’s handsome face look sad. “It isn’t the same, but I could never love anyone more, the way I love you. You’re my little miracle.”

“But … when I leave, and when Matthew leaves, it will be just you and Mary.”

“Good Lord.” Her father laughs. “Don’t wish that on me.”

“You should marry again, if you don’t want that to happen.”

“Go to sleep, Sybil.”

“We could go back to Ireland, if you wanted. I heard you when you told Aunt Mary that you missed it.”

“If you like.” That excitement flares again in her father’s eyes. He loves his home country dearly, yet Sybil has never understood why they never return for more than a few weeks at a time, even now his exile has been lifted.

“Would you meet a new wife in Ireland?”

Her father kisses her head, gives her that smile she recognises as him humouring her. “Goodnight, Sybil.”

“I just don’t want you to be lonely.” She murmurs to his retreating form.

###

Sybil’s surprised to find Anna Bates in her bedchamber when she wakes. “Lady Mary thought that it might be a nice surprise for me to help you get dressed this morning.”

“But what about Lady Mary?”

Mary knows that Sybil adores Anna, but Sybil doesn’t understand why her aunt has surrendered her most treasured maid to her – is today a special event she’s not aware of?

Anna laughs, a nice sound that makes her look a lot younger than she is. “Lady Mary is quite capable of dressing herself, Lady Sybil, or haven’t you noticed? And besides, she thought it time one of the other maids tried their hand at dressing her, since you’ll need your own ladies’ maid soon enough and she wants them to be perfect for you.”

Anna is the only one among her generation of servants who don’t twitch or pinch when they call her Lady Sybil. Sybil doesn’t mind; they watched her mother grow up, some were even there when her mother was born. Her aunt is always saying how Downton is a family, not just a house; how it must have pained Carson and Mrs. Hughes, then, to deny themselves children only to see the only children they had ever known snatched away so cruelly. But they have watched her grow up, too, yet their faces hold sadness when they look at her, a strange creature that is happy as well as desperately melancholy. It’s a strange mix, but one that Sybil is used to seeing, and she watches Anna’s face carefully as Mary’s maid begins to brush her hair; long like her mother’s but lighter in colour and weight, the brush strokes an even, soothing rhythm.

“Anna, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, m’lady. What is it?”

Sybil’s brow creases, trying to work out what she wants to say, what she wants to ask. Does she even know the question, or the answer that she’s searching for? Too many times has she asked people what her mother was like, but as she thought about her father last night, thought about Mary, she realises that maybe she’s been asking the wrong question, all these years.

“Why … why has my father never married again?”

Anna smiles, her eyes on Sybil’s hair. “That’s something you’d have to ask him. He isn’t likely to confide in me.”

Sybil bites her lip, watches Anna’s reflection in the mirror. Nothing given away, nothing ventured. She tries again. “It’s just … all these years, I’ve asked what my mother was like, but … I’ve been doing it all wrong.”

“So you want to know what it was about your mother that meant no woman was ever able to measure up to her?”

“Yes.” Sybil’s face cracks a smile; for all her education, she can be so woefully inarticulate sometimes. Her English teacher would be ashamed. “Yes, that is exactly what I mean. I worry about my father, being alone.”

“He isn’t alone, Lady Sybil. He has you, and the house, and his own family back in Ireland, and he has Lady Mary and Lady Edith and even Mrs. Crawley, when she wants to. But that isn’t what you mean when you say alone, is it?”

“No. I hear things, when I’m in the village, or when we go back to Ireland or even to London. He is admired by many women.”

“And could you really see your father with one of those London ladies?” Anna gives Sybil a conspiratorial smile.

“No.” Sybil shakes her head, smiles. “No, I could not. But … I cannot see him with Mama, either.” Her gaze flickers to the picture of them, on her dresser, both of them so stiff and formal in their clothes for Mary and Matthew’s wedding. “How am I to get a measure of them from a picture? How am I to understand why he loved her so, when all I have are pictures and memories that belong to other people?” She sighs. “The only lady I ever see him with is Aunt Mary.”

Anna continues brushing Sybil’s hair, steady strokes that massage Sybil’s head. “Your father and Lady Mary have been through a great deal together.” She says at length. “He was there for her, when Matthew died.”

Sybil thinks about the brown-eyed boy with floppy straw-coloured hair, loitering like her on the cusp of adulthood. Soon he will be a man and she will be a woman and their whole world will change. “What was he like, Matthew’s father?”

“Mr. Crawley … had a love for life.” Anna says, smiling wistfully, her face sad. “He loved life and everything about it. He loved love, loved being in love with Lady Mary. He was good for Lady Mary, and she him. He was kind, but fair, quiet, but strong. He saved Downton, you know. Sometimes I think … I think one of the reasons Lady Mary and your father did such a good job running the place was because they always asked themselves what Mr. Crawley would have done in their place, if he had lived. Between the three of them, they made Downton great again.” Anna smiles, rests Sybil’s brush on the dresser. “I think you would have liked him. Your mother liked him, and so did your father, and you’re a lot like both of them.”

Sybil’s eyes flicker to the picture on her dresser, her mind on a similar picture that she has seen in Lady Mary’s bedchamber, a picture of a younger Mary and a man with floppy straw hair and beautiful eyes, a secret, knowing smile on his lips. “It’s strange.” She says, tracing her mother’s face with her finger tips, her fingers heavy with her mother’s ring. “I look at my mother and father and I see the love, but I’ve never seen it. And I look at Aunt Mary and her Matthew, and I see their love, but I’ve never seen it. I’ve only seen Mary alone, or with my father.”

Anna tucks a piece of hair behind Sybil’s ear. “Sometimes you think too much, my Lady.”

###

Much to Sybil’s father’s horror, her Aunt Mary insists on driving them to the train station herself. “Oh do be quiet, Tom.” She rolls her eyes at Sybil as her father grumbles the entire time. “I thought you were in favour of women’s equality.”

“I’m also in favour of living longer, Lady Mary.”

Mary gets out of the car to check the cases, Sybil’s father soon follows, the bickering in time with their footsteps on gravel. “Well you taught me how to drive this thing, Tom. So if I crash then you only have poor instruction to blame.”

Matthew is in the back seat, rolls his eyes, nudges Sybil and smiles the secret smile that is all his father. “If my mother and your father could put aside their bickering, you would have been away hours ago.”

Sybil’s gloved fingers toy with her purse, a gift from her father to her mother on the rare occasion that they had spare money. Her father tells her that those poor months in Dublin were among the happiest of his life, although he doesn’t talk about them and has never expressed a desire to return to that small flat where he made his home with Sybil’s mother. “Matthew, do you ….”

“What is it, Sybbie?” Matthew knows her well enough to know that she’s worried about something; he is the only person aside from her father who uses her nickname.

“Do you ever think about your father?”

Matthew’s face flashes with ... something, and his eyes look lost, like the young man he really is rather than the adult he resembles. “Sometimes.” He says. “I hear Mama crying, when she thinks we are all gone to bed. She sits in the library and cries.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Please don’t betray her to your father.” Matthew looks worried, glances out of the window, where Mary and Sybil’s father are still bickering, although their voices are now too low to truly pick up what’s being said. “He worries about her. With Matthew and grandfather dead … your father told me that my mother reminded him of a great ship that had lost its rudder.”

Sybil thinks about that. A sad image. An accurate one, sometimes. “Do you want your mother to get married again?”

“I want her to be happy. She could marry a polo player from Argentina if that would make her happy.”

“Not one called Timothy, I hope.”

Matthew laughs, a deep sound that seems to come from his shoes. “I would hate to think of my father looking down from heaven and seeing my mother so unhappy. I would hate to think that he wanted that for her, wanted her to be alone, wedded to his memory. I don’t remember him, or feel like I know him very well, but I do feel that he wanted her to be happy above everything else. I think your mother would have wanted that for your father, too. And for you.”

“I hope so.”

Matthew watches her carefully; she can feel his scrutiny. “It is … difficult, sharing a name with your dead parent, isn’t it?”

“That’s a very blunt thing to say.” Sybil can’t help but laugh.

“A blunt thing to say, but a true one. Or at least, that is what I think. My mother is forever telling me that I look like my father; I think it would be a lot easier for us all to bear if I didn’t share his name as well as his likeness.”

“Matthew.” Aunt Mary’s face appears between the passenger seats. “Are you coming with us to the station, or just warming that seat?”

Matthew gives Sybil that wicked smile of his, vestiges of seriousness long gone now they are in company. “I will stay here, Mama. Someone has to keep things in line while you gallivant about the country in this car.” He takes Sybil’s hand, squeezes it once. “Safe trip, Sybbie.”

“Goodbye, Matthew. And I agree, with what you said.”

Mary sighs. “What impertinent thing did he say this time?”

“Nothing, Aunt.” Sybil smiles at her father, who is now seated next to her aunt and bearing an exasperated expression. “We were just talking about … names.”

“Let’s go, Mary.” Sybil’s father slides his small leather bag next to Sybil and gives her a smile. “If we don’t leave now we’re going to miss our train.”

Matthew waves them off; Sybil turns around to meet his eyes until they turn the corner and disappear from view. Then life outside Downton looms; rickety roads and branches that snap at the trees, the sun through the windows and on her face. And soon, Ireland, her father’s homeland. Nerves prickle her stomach. Her father’s mother has always intimidated her.

“I don’t understand why you were so nervous, Father.” She says, gripping her seat as Mary takes a corner too fast. “Aunt Mary’s driving is not dangerous.”

“Not you too.” Her father smiles.

“Maybe I can have lessons when I return from Ireland.”

“No!” Her father and aunt chorus, exchanging sharp, pained looks. Sybil isn’t sure who looks the more terrified at the prospect of her behind the wheel of a car.

“You managed to drive just fine.” Her father’s voice is low, not meant for Sybil to hear, but the car is small and her father has never been one to not speak his mind. “You know what happened to Matthew was an accident.”

“What do you have planned for while you’re in Ireland, Sybil?” Her aunt’s voice trembles and Sybil can see the leather on her hands strain as she grips the steering wheel.

“Not a great deal, at the moment.” Sybil smiles. “Father wants to take me to his cousin’s grave, so I can see the memorial for the Rising. We have some plans with family, some of father’s friends from before he moved to England. And then we’re going to visit _The Clarion_.”

“ _The Clarion_?” Her aunt swerves and suddenly Sybil understands just what her father means when he says her aunt’s driving can be erratic. “ _The Dublin Clarion_? The newspaper?”

“Last time I checked, there’s only one _Clarion_ in Dublin.” Her father’s voice is subdued. “It’s just a talk, lunch maybe. Nothing more. I haven’t seen the editor since I was exiled.”

“Well make sure you don’t go for a lunch and come back with a job. Or at least, not one with a good salary.”

“There’s more to life than money, Mary.” Her father’s voice is sharp in a way that Sybil’s rarely heard it before. “Not all of us can be born into entitlement.”

“Spare me the lecture on the impoverished working classes, Tom.” Her aunt sounds bored, which Sybil recognises as her way to get Sybil’s father to stop talking. “We’re almost at the train station and I don’t want to fall asleep at the wheel.”

They continue to bicker while her father unloads the cases and Sybil breathes in the smells of coal and other people, who all mill around waiting for the train to Liverpool.

“I just don’t understand why you must go in Third.” Mary grumbles as she hugs Sybil and kisses her cheek. “We have the money and no Crawley heir should sit in Third.”

“She isn’t a Crawley, she’s a Branson.”

“A Branson living in the Crawley’s ancestral home.”

Sybil takes her case from her aunt and sighs. This is another old argument between them; sometimes Sybil’s convinced they do it more for something to say to each other than because they actually mean it.

“That’s our train.” Sybil’s father gestures to a rather grand-looking locomotive, a sleek black monster spitting smoke into the clouds. “Come on.”

“Telephone when you arrive, so we know you made it. Or write, if you choose. Crawley’s don’t have any more luck with boats than we do with cars.”

“The boat isn’t going to sink.”

“They said that about the _Titanic_.”

“We’ll call.”

“And I’ll write.” Sybil hugs her aunt, smiling when she feels Mary’s arms go around her. When they step away, Mary smoothes down Sybil’s hair, presses something into her hand: another new pair of gloves. “Aunt-“

“I don’t want to hear it.” Mary’s smile is broad. “I packed a new dress into your case. It isn’t anything too fancy; your father made sure of that. But I wanted you to have something special and a surprise to wear while you’re there. You must look your best, for your family in Dublin; you don’t see them very often and I don’t want them to think we’re mistreating you both over here.”

“You really shouldn’t have, Aunt.”

“No, I really should have, Sybil. And I wanted to, and that is that.”

It breaks Sybil’s heart that her aunt didn’t have a daughter of her own, that they both had to fabricate a pleasant fiction of mother and daughter-figures. Her aunt adores Matthew, but handbags and dresses and that beautiful nineteenth century jewellery box on Mary’s vanity are wasted on him.

The conductor blows his whistle: time to go. Sybil steps aboard to find their seats, only aware her father isn’t following when she is seated at the window, watching him with her aunt. They’re speaking, she can see their mouths move, but she doesn’t know what they’re saying. Several onlookers stare at them, which is to be expected; they’re the great Crawley family, the lifeblood of the village, after all.

Finally, Mary squeezes Tom’s hand, straightens his hat, and lets her eyes drift over his shoulder, catching Sybil’s gaze and holding it. She waves and smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Her father makes it onto the train with seconds to spare, takes the seat opposite Sybil, his back to the platform. He doesn’t move until the train has cleared the village, the rolling hills of England whipping past them.

###

Liverpool is smelly and crowded and dirty and alive in a way that the village and Downton just aren’t. Her father moves among the crowds with practiced ease, Sybil clinging to his arm, fearful of being swept away in the crowd in case she drowns, as Mary predicted. But her father’s grip on her is strong; he would never fail her. But people squeeze closer to her than she would like and men look at her the way they never would have a year or even six months ago, and she’s glad that her father took Mary’s advice and booked them a nice room on the boat, away from the crowds with space to breathe and appreciate how beautiful England is as they set sail.

“It really is beautiful, isn’t it, Papa?”

Her father puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer, ghosts his lips across her temple. “Of course it is, Sybbie. Brought me your mother. Brought me you. No place that gave you both to me could be completely ugly.”

Sybil snuggles closer to her father’s reassuring warmth. “But I’m only half English, remember?”

Dublin is different to what she remembers. She’s been away too long and the accent sounds heavy and unfamiliar against her ears; she’s amazed that her father still sounds so Irish, surrounded by English inflections. The Liffey looms large against everything, the smell filling the air along with the scent of fish and coal and the smells of life.

Her uncle and grandmother come to meet them. Fierce creatures, both of them, they stare at Sybil with thinly-veiled scrutiny, although her grandmother looks more kindly upon her than her uncle. He and her father exchange some heated stares until he claps her father on the back and loudly proclaims how good it is to have his brother home. Her grandmother’s house is small and neat, homelier than Downton but more crowded.

“I’m sure it isn’t what you’re used to.” Her grandmother says, but it’s not meant as an apology.

“It’s fine-” Sybil catches herself before she can fumble an endearment. What is she meant to call her paternal grandmother? Her maternal grandmother wasn’t around long enough for her to think of an endearment, so she followed Mary’s lead and called her Grandmama, just as her aunt had called the Dowager Countess. But this grandmother is very much alive and no less formidable and standing in front of her almost expecting a term of love to slip from Sybil’s lips.

“Well.” Her grandmother does not look impressed. “I see they aren’t teaching you much about love all the way over there. Or about respect for your elders.”

“I’m sorry.” Sybil stammers. “My other grandmother … she died a long time ago, long before I really knew what to call her. I …”

Sybil’s grandmother’s face breaks into a smile and she pats her leg. “Hush, now, child. You’ve changed so much since I last saw you.”

An old but firm hand on her jaw, twisting her face this way and that, inspecting her. “You look more and more like her with each passing year. But I expect you hear that a lot.”

“Yes.”

“No bad thing.” Her grandmother sniffs, pours them both a cup of strong, sweet tea. “She was a sweet girl. Thought it would break your father’s heart when she died. Having you has been his greatest comfort, although I don’t know how he stands it, looking at you each day and seeing her.”

###

They go to Mass on Sunday morning. It’s a new experience for Sybil, to be accompanied to church by someone other than her father, and by a large family, no less, but they all make the short walk to St. Patrick’s: her, her father, her grandmother, her uncle, his wife and their children, new cousins who stare at Sybil with barely-disguised scrutiny and giggle at her accent when they think she isn’t listening. Eyes turn to look at them as they enter the church, curious stares of people who watched her father grow up. One woman in particular catches her eye; a glorious vision of red tumbling curls scarcely contained by a pearl barrette, skin like fresh milk and eyes as green as the fields around Downton. Her father, for his part, seems to recognise her, for he gives her a nod as he guides Sybil into a pew at the back of the church and sits, head bowed, eyes closed.

Mass is longer than the service back home, and Sybil’s mind can’t help but wander as the priest drones on and on. When she turns her head she spies a boy about her age, who watches her with unconcealed interest. He’s a mess of black curls and vivid blue eyes, and his smile makes her blush in a way she hasn’t before. He finds her afterwards, when they’re milling around outside, waiting for her father to come out of his confessional.

“I don’t know what he’s got to confess.” Her uncle’s grumbling to his wife. “The boy lives like a monk over there.”

“He goes every week.” Sybil blurts out, although she doesn’t mean to and certainly not in front of this beautiful boy she doesn’t know. But it’s the truth, and if her father and her aunt have taught her one thing, it is to always speak to truth, because lies are so much worse. “He does. He goes to confession every week.”

“We haven’t been formally introduced.” The boy extends his hand. “I’m Michael. We live across the street from your grandmommy.”

 _Grandmommy_. Sybil’s mind works her way around the nickname, looks at her grandmother. It suits her. “Sybil Branson.”

“My daddy knew your daddy, growing up.” He points at a man about her father’s age, another vivid figure of salt-and-pepper curls and blue eyes.

“It’s always nice to meet another one of father’s friends. Especially from Dublin.”

“How long are you here for?”

“We don’t yet know. Not long, I don’t think; father has responsibilities at home that he must get back to.”

“I’m sure he does.”

The redhead is holding her father’s arm as he comes out of church, a sheepish half-smile on his face, mismatched against her clear delight. Sybil’s grandmother looks on approvingly as they descend the steps, not too dissimilar to the newly-married couples that Sybil sees in the village. Something cold takes root in her stomach as she looks at this, this image of a future where her father has remarried this redheaded woman and all she can think is that it looks wrong to her, not least because her father’s not smiling the way he should, and suddenly she understands what everyone has been trying to explain to her about why her father hasn’t remarried.

The redhead’s name is Sinead, an old family friend whom Sybil’s father courted briefly before he went to England to look for work and found a family. Sybil’s mother’s family. His family. Sybil’s family.

“Your grandmommy told us what happened to your momma.” She says, her hand light on Sybil’s father’s arm. “We were heartbroken when we heard.”

“Not as heartbroken as my father, I’m sure of it.”

“Sybil.” Her father’s voice is soft, the same warning tone he uses when he thinks she’s being impertinent.

Sinead doesn’t seem to mind though. If anything, her grip on Sybil’s father’s arm tightens some more. “I see she gets her fieriness from you, Tom.”

 _Tom_. Sybil doesn’t like the way her father’s name rolls of Sinead’s tongue, even if she did know her father before Tom knew his Sybils. She doesn’t care if this Sinead has a prior claim over her father; the thought of him marrying her is absolutely unacceptable.

“Unacceptable?!” Her father has the impertinence to laugh when she raises it after dinner that night.

“Yes.” Sybil’s aware that she must sound vaguely ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop her. “Well it is, Papa. Tell me you aren’t seriously considering marrying that woman?”

“Sinead would no sooner consider marrying me than she would the King of England.” Her father looks angry, amused and embarrassed all at the same time. “Really, Sybil, where did you dream up this idea?”

“I saw you walking together, out of the church. She had her hand on your arm. You were both smiling.”

“Heaven forbid! Have you heard this, Mama?” Her father turns to Sybil’s grandmother, who sits by the fire and drinks her tea, her smile concealed by her cup. “A man and a woman walking out of church arm-in-arm. Because that can mean nothing but marriage. I thought you wanted me to get married again?”

“I do. I just don’t want you to marry Sinead!” Sybil’s gone before her father can protest, stomps up the narrow stairs to the attic room that used to be her uncle’s and at length, her father arrives.

“Can I come in?”

“It is more your house than it is mine; do as you please.”

Her father comes into the small room, shuts the door behind him. The bed creaks as he sits down, watching his daughter closely. “I don’t intend to propose to Sinead, Sybil.”

Sybil cannot contain the smile that lights up her face. “You do not?”

“Of course not.” Her father takes her hand, shifts on the bed. “Sybil, Sinead is a wonderful woman, but … what we had was a whisper of what could be. We were both young, foolish … my feelings for her belong in my past, as does she.”

“So you are not getting married?” Suddenly Sybil feels very foolish.

“Not now. Definitely not to Sinead, but maybe one day, if I met someone.” Her father squeezes her hand. “You aren’t the only person who feels as though they have lived their life in the shadow of your mother, Sybbie.”

Sybil’s quiet, collecting her thoughts. Eventually she says, “I did not know Mama, Father. I look at the picture of you both, and I cannot see the love you two had. I feel it sometimes, in her room, in Downton’s walls, but I have never seen it for myself. But I know that she loved you, and she would not want to look down from heaven and see you unhappy after all these years. I am sure she did not want for you to spend your life mourning hers.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“So does this mean you’ve thought about forming another attachment?”

Her father rolls his eyes. “You’re beginning to sound like your Aunt Mary.”

“Do you think that she will ever remarry, father?”

“Maybe. If she found someone brave enough. If such a man exists.”

“But you would not want her to live in such a cage, would you?”

“Of course not.” Her father says quickly. “Your Aunt deserves nothing but happiness. But … it would be a man with big feet and bigger ideas who would fill Matthew’s shoes. She would settle for no less.”

“Nor would you.”

Her father laughs, pulls her close. “Oh I wouldn’t?”

“No, and if you did, I wouldn’t let you. You deserve someone with big feet too, Papa.”

“I think we both do.”

###

They stay in Dublin for two more weeks, and upon their return to England they are met with a fuss: Mary’s American relatives are coming to stay; among them is a cattle baron from Texas who has expressed an interest in meeting Mary.

“How exactly does a Texan cattle king find himself a friend to your American relatives?” Sybil’s father says as the four of them sit down to dinner, fire and banter crackling and warming the room. “I can’t imagine Mrs. Levinson venturing down to Houston to talk to some dusty cowboy. She barely touched my hand the last time we met.”

“Now, now, Tom.” Aunt Mary scarcely glances up from her plate, spearing a perfectly-cooked green bean with her fork. “Say any more and I’ll think you think my relatives snobbish. And besides,” A smile teases her lips, the fine lines softening her eyes. “There’s nothing dusty about Weyland Vance Gardiner.”

“Weyland?” Her father barks a laugh and even Sybil cannot contain a smile. “How can you take issue with Timothy but not _Weyland_?”

“It _is_ a terrible name, Mother.” Matthew chimes in.

“Mary Vance Gardiner.” Sybil says. “It sounds terribly dreamy, Aunt.”

Matthew laughs, his voice a welcome relief around the otherwise silent table.

“And what is wrong with Weyland Vance Gardiner?” Mary says, more than a little indignantly.

Flatware scrapes against porcelain, silver knives and forks on plates of food. The fire crackles and the room feels hot; Sybil wants to open the window and crawl onto the lawn until the most awful thought occurs to her.

“Please tell me you _have_ met him, Aunt.”

“Of course I have, Sybil. Not for a few years, of course, but he has some free time and loves to travel, and my cousins insisted that he travel with them and stay with us.”

“It was very nice of them to invite him to stay here.”

“I know.” Mary rolls her eyes, takes a sip of wine. “But they’re Americans, Tom; they apparently think it’s perfectly acceptable to invite relative strangers to other people’s homes without so much as prior warning.”

Sybil’s father sips some wine, uses his glass as a pointer. “You could always refuse, Mary.”

Mary’s lips are stained red. _She’s had too much_ , Sybil thinks. “And where would be the fun in that?”

Mary meets Tom’s stare and holds it. Sybil feels the air around them grow thick and heavy; she catches Matthew’s eye and it’s clear that he feels it too.

“Well I look forward to meeting him, Aunt.” Sybil says. “It will be nice to have some new conversation.”

“Why, are we boring you, Sybil?” Matthew watches her over the rim of his glass, his eyes dancing.

“No.” Sybil feels a blush rise up her cheeks. “Just that … varied conversation and viewpoints are important, aren’t they?”

“Absolutely.” Matthew agrees.

“The foundation of any good debate.” Mary takes a sip of her wine, resumes eating,

“And any good life.” Her father finishes.

They eat the rest of their meal in silence.

###

It is winter when the Americans arrive; the village is aflutter with news and speculation that clings to the ground with more tenacity than the snow and the frost that turn Sybil and Matthew’s cheeks rosy red.

“What time are they due to arrive?” Matthew’s breathless as he rolls snow into a ball; the weather is bad and school has been cancelled, and he and Sybil make snowmen in the gardens.

“Theirs is the last train in, I believe.”

“Yes, of course. We’re having that late supper. Your poor father will be worn out; he left the house before sunrise this morning.”

“I haven’t seen him all day. He took his lunch in the pub in the village.”

“How do you think he’ll cope with the arrival of the Americans?” Matthew attaches the snowball to the bigger ball on the ground, steps back, surveys his handiwork.

“I think he’s intrigued by Weyland Gardiner.” Sybil smiles, the skin on her lips chapped and dry.“It is a ghastly name, isn’t it? Tell me your mother isn’t thinking of marrying him.”

Matthew shrugs. “I think my mother is lonely. Everyone her own age is married and she doesn’t want an old man, although our Aunt didn’t seem to mind so much, years ago.”

Sybil pelts him with a snowball. “Leave Edith out of this. She loved Strallan, and I don’t understand what the fuss was all about. The way my father tells it, it was fine for Strallan to be paraded around as a suitor for your mother because of his money, but the moment Aunt Edith stepped in and said she cared for him, the family were aghast.”

“Poor Edith.”

“Why? She’s with a man that she loves.”

“Are you not scandalised that they aren’t married?” Matthew feigns shock, throws a snowball that she ducks to miss.

“I would be more scandalised if she had married a man she didn’t love because society dictated it.”

Matthew laughs again, aims a snowball that catches Sybil right in the mouth. “You really are your father’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Sybil’s cheeks and mouth still feel chapped and exposed from the weather and the snow when the Americans arrive, resplendent in their foreign clothes with strange accents and loud voices that crowd into Downton’s expansive hallways. Mary greets her relatives with a tired smile and her very British manners; Tom stands off to one side, watching the procession with careful scrutiny.

Weyland Vance Gardiner is the last to come through the door, and Sybil can feel her lips part as she sees him for the first time. She hasn’t met many Americans, has never been to America even though her Aunt Mary keeps threatening to take her. Her knowledge of America comes from books in the library and snippets of stories from the news; she imagines a far-off place, a wild land of ways just different enough from the British to be foreign, yet therapeutically similar. But there is nothing similar about Weyland Gardiner: a hulking giant that crosses the threshold in two huge strides, his long coat swirling around his ankles and a wide-brimmed hat on his head; he feels to Sybil the embodiment of everything she has read and heard about _Texas_.

“Lady Mary.” His huge hands swoop down and capture her Aunt’s, his voice sweet, like the caramel that Daisy makes in the pan in the kitchen. “It’s a mighty big honour to finally meet you. Now we’re both old enough to legally vote, that is.”

“Careful, Mr. Gardiner.” Mary says, smiling as Weyland’s heavy brown moustache graces her skin and he kisses her hand. “You can’t vote here.”

Sybil smiles. Her father mutters under his breath and retreats into the library.

Dinner is crowded and raucous and Weyland Gardiner’s loud, drawling voice dominates every conversation, his booming laughter echoing around the dining room as he regales everyone with tales of his life: the cattle industry, hi-jinks during his rural childhood, his plans for while he’s here. “We’re so preoccupied with where we come from, as a nation.” He says as he pours more wine and helps himself to the proffered dessert. “We can tell anyone who wants to listen where our parents are from, where our grandparents are from – you name it.”

“And where are your parents and grandparents from, Mr. Gardiner?” Sybil says.

Weyland gives her that rogue’s smile, twitches his moustache with thumb and forefinger. “Lady Sybil, my family has been cattle ranchers for generations. Texas and cattle are in the Gardiner blood.”

“So you can’t see yourself doing anything else, then?” Sybil’s father reaches for his glass, swirls the liquid around, meets the Texan’s bold stare from across the table.

Weyland shrugs, leans back in his chair, his fingers dancing along the back of Lady Mary’s chair. Sybil isn’t the only one around the table who stiffens at the proximity. “Why would I? Only thing I’m good at, Mr. Branson. Only thing I’ve ever known. When my family started out we had a mangy old steer and a measly half acre. Now we own half the state and employ the other half.” He winks at Tom. “Thought you of all people would understand moving on up from humble beginnings.”

“My father hasn’t forgotten where he comes from, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Sybil’s voice is sharp in the way it gets only when she’s defending her father.

“Now steady on, Lady Sybil.” Weyland holds his hands up in defence, chuckles. “I wasn’t insinuating anything of the kind. I think your father’s an example to be emulated.”

“Who would like dessert?” Mary rings the bell before anyone can say anything more.

###

Later, when everyone has gone to bed, Matthew knocks on Sybil’s door. “Sybbie?”

“Matthew!” Sybil clutches a scandalised sheet to her chest. “What are you doing in here?”

“Oh hush; I’m not here to spy on you or catch you in your petticoats. Come downstairs. Quietly, mind.”

The library door is ajar, and they press their ears against the door. Not that they need to; Mary and her father’s voices have always carried when they fight.

“Tell me you aren’t thinking of marrying that idiot in the Stetson?”

“Weyland is not an idiot!” Mary sounds indignant. “And I thought you admired people who spoke their minds and weren’t afraid of their achievements?”

“And just what are you planning to do?” Sybil hears a slosh in a glass; one or both of them are drinking. “Marry him, move to Texas and start milking cows?”

“He raises cattle for beef, not milking, Tom.”

“And what about Matthew? Are you planning to tie a lasso to his neck and drag him along for the ride?”

“Good Lord, Tom, could you be any more dramatic?” Mary sounds tired; Sybil can picture her aunt descending with Crawley grace into one of the uncomfortable chairs they keep in library and reserve for guests they don’t like. “He hasn’t even proposed.”

“I’m not being dramatic, I’m being practical.”

“Oh really?” Something clinks against glass; ice, probably. Either her aunt or her father – probably both – is pausing for a drink. “And just how practical were you when you wanted my sister to elope with you? How is my situation any different to yours?”

“Because I loved Sybil and you don’t love Weyland!”

“And how do you know that I don’t love Weyland?”

“Oh, don’t make me laugh!” Sybil’s father sounds worse than angry: he sounds insulted.

“Alright, fine. I don’t love him. But I could grow to, if I thought about it. I did with Matthew. I didn’t like him at first, either.”

“Do not even try to pretend that what you feel for that oaf could be anything other than a shadow of what you felt for Matthew. I mean it, Mary.”

“Alright then, how’s this: I didn’t much like you when we first met.”

Another glass clinks with ice; Sybil’s father’s voice is heavy and thick when he says, “I remember. You liked me even less when you found out I was in love with your sister.”

“No, I didn’t mind that too much.” Mary’s voice is faraway and sad; like Tom, she’s remembering. “It was when you tried to persuade her to run away with you that I began disliking you. And now look at us, sat here in the library like the bookends we are.”

“Sybil told me how you kept our secret, when she asked you to.” Sybil’s father sounds sad. “I don’t think I ever really thanked you for that.”

“I didn’t really do anything except keep my sister’s confidence. And besides, it should be me thanking you. Matthew would never have married me, had you not been there. And then afterwards, after the accident …” There’s quiet then, movement against the carpet, Sybil can imagine shoes on the plush pile, fabric bending and yielding as someone – her father, most likely – takes a seat.

“You don’t have to marry him, you know.” Her father’s voice is soft in a way that Sybil rarely hears. “You know that, don’t you? You don’t have to marry anyone. Not when you have all this. Things aren’t how they used to be. And you’ve never been one to let village gossip sway you, surely?”

“I know.”

“I know you know. I just think that sometimes you need to hear it pass someone else’s lips, other than your own. And things aren’t so bad for you here, are they?”

“No.” Mary’s voice is soft. “Not too bad at all.”

“I think you two have eavesdropped quite enough for one evening.” Sybil and Matthew’s heads jerk upwards at the whispered admonishment, straight into the clear, all-seeing eyes of Mr. Bates.

“I, um …..” Matthew can’t think of an excuse, Bates’ blank expression and dancing black eyes don’t help. He’s older now, grey threading his hair. His limp is more pronounced than it was when Sybil was growing up, but there’s no doubting his strength. He has been her father’s valet and confidante for years, an unlikely pairing, but no more unlikely than Anna and Mr. Bates, or Mary and Anna. Or even her father and her aunt.

“We were just going to bed, we’re we, Matthew?” Sybil tugs on Matthew’s sleeve, backing away from the door lest her father hear them.

“Yes, Lady Sybil. I’ll ask Anna to come to your room directly.”

“Thank you.” Sybil backs away from the door, taking Matthew with her.

As they ascend the stairs she turns her head in time to see Mr. Bates press his own ear to the door, a hint of a smile gracing his lips as he pulls the door fully closed before continuing on his way.

###

Christmas comes with its usual bluster and festive grace; Sybil finds herself spoiled by everyone and surprised when Matthew steals a kiss under the mistletoe. It’s nothing more than a peck on her cheek, but they both blush when he’s done and he’s gone before Sybil can say anything, but when she glances up she catches her Aunt Mary and her father looking at her with barely disguised amusement.

 _Honestly_. Sometimes she wonders just who the adults are.

“Can I have this dance, Lady Sybil?” Mr. Bates doesn’t dance anymore, which is why Sybil is all the more surprised when he extends his hand at the annual Downton dance. Sybil smiles. Mr. Bates might not draw her eye, but he’s still handsome when he smiles, like he’s got an old devil inside him that likes to come out when the Christmas lights twinkle and there are presents and the smells of spices in the air.

“It would be my pleasure, Mr. Bates.”

Bates is bigger than Sybil and he moves her easily, all signs of his limp gone, like she’s standing on his feet and he’s dancing them both, like her father used to do when she was a child. There’s a part of her that would still like to do that now, however much she would deny it if asked, and she finds her eyes drawn to her father, twirling Anna Bates around the dance floor like she weighs nothing. Is it still strange for him, she wonders, to be the only servant in the house who went upstairs and never came back down?

“Have you had a nice Christmas, Lady Sybil?” Bates’ voice is soft, his smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

“I did, thank you. Did you and Mrs. Bates enjoy the holiday?”

“We did, I thank you. We’re still enjoying the holiday.”

“Did you manage to see Mrs. Bates’ family, as you planned?”

“We did, and our nieces and nephews were very pleased to see us.”

It’s always puzzled Sybil that Mr. Bates and Anna did not have children. She once overheard one of the more impertinent maids remarking that babies and death went hand in hand in the Downton house; her grandmother, Lady Mary and her mother all had the happy surprise of motherhood, only to have death in one form or another steal any happiness away from them. But Anna and Mr. Bates aren’t the type to listen to such hurtful rumours, not when they lived through it all and saw the truth of the matter.

The song is over too quickly, and then Matthew interrupts them for a dance, while Sybil’s father entreats Lady Mary to the floor. She smiles and laughs and shakes her head, but allows his hand to take hers and glide them both on to the dance floor, her hand grasped in his, the other about his shoulders. She’s almost as tall as her father, still hasn’t managed to remove that stiffness in her spine that was instilled by generations of tradition and is in the Crawley blood.

“Quite a pair they make, don’t they?” Matthew’s voice is low in her ear, his cheek brushing hers as he speaks. He’s taller than her by several inches now, and more like his father than ever; it’s strange to watch an image from a picture come to life before her eyes.

“You know it’s impertinent to talk about idle gossip.”

“Oh come now, Sybbie. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“How can you talk of your mother in such a way?”

“No less a way than I’m talking about your father. And besides, it’s not like I’m saying anything scandalous, or unkind. I’m only being honest, and that is what I think.”

“I wouldn’t let Mr. Bates hear your honesty. Or our parents, for that matter.”

Matthew smiles down at her, twirls them some more. “Well I’m trusting you to keep my confidence.”

###

Lady Sybil asks her father only once.

“Father, you and Lady Mary?”

“Yes, Sybbie?” Her father glances up from the book he’s reading. Its spring, still chilly in the air, and Sybil’s still wearing extra clothes to keep out the evening cold.

“It’s just that … Neither of you have ever remarried.”

“Yes.” Her father closes his book, gives her his full attention.

Sybil squints, tries to think about what to say without mortally offending her father. “Are you … do you have … and arrangement, like Aunt Edith and Gregson?”

Her father stares at her long and hard. “Read your book, Sybil.”

Anger flashes in Sybil’s eyes, nothing to the rage that churns in her gut. Her father has never been so dismissive. “Do not treat me like a child, father.”

“Do not ask questions that are none of your business. And I would stop listening to Matthew, too. That boy’s been peering through too many keyholes, seeing a snapshot and making a mural.”

The pair glare at each other until Sybil snatches up her father’s book, holds it out to him. “I would not mind, father.”

“I consider myself flattered.”

“That is not what I mean and you know it.” Sybil sighs, looks away. “I am not a child, father. You have never treated me like one; please don’t start now. When the autumn comes I will go away to university and who knows when I will come back. I am worried for you, father. I have spent eighteen years watching you mourn my mother, and what life have you had? What life will you have once I am gone away? When I say I would not mind if you and Aunt Mary had an …”

"Arrangement, I believe was your word.” Her father’s voice is distant and detached, but he doesn’t tell her to stop.

“Yes. Well, when I say that I do not mind, I think you misunderstand me. When I say I would not mind, I am not thinking about Mama, or your time together. I am thinking about you, as my father, the man who has been my father and my mother to me. I am saying I do not mind because I want you to stop hiding behind my mother and Matthew’s father, and just be happy.”

Her father exhales, drums his fingers on the table. “Are you finished?”

Sybil slams her father’s book on to the table. Her father is incorrigible. “Yes, father. I’m finished.”

###

Sybil’s packing for university when there’s a knock at her bedroom door, and her Aunt’s face appears. “Am I disturbing you?”

“It is your house; you may do as you please.”

“True, but this is not my room.”

“It will be, after tomorrow.”

Mary smiles, closes the door behind her. “This will always be your room, Sybil.” Her aunt’s eyes drift to the packing case, open and only half-filled. “You know, there are shops in New York, Sybil. Whole avenues full of them.”

“I know.” Sybil takes a dress, folds tissue paper around it, lays it carefully in her case.

“And you’ve already sent a lot of your clothes ahead; you don’t want to drag a monstrous case all the way across the Atlantic when your terms are finished, do you?”

“I’m sure I will manage, Aunt.”

Her aunt sits down on the bed, smoothing her skirts over her legs, reaching for the well-worn books on the quilts. “I wished I could have gone to university.” Her voice is wistful and sad. “You are much braver than I, venturing across the Atlantic, but it has a certain poeticism to it. You are part American, after all; its almost nice to see you returning to the motherland. I think my mother would have liked it. And your mother, too. She would be very proud of you, you know. So very proud.”

“So everyone has told me.”

Mary gives Sybil that vague half-smile that she has, reaches for some clothes. “Let me help you, Sybil-“

Their hands collide as they both fumble for the dress. Sybil comes away with it, taking it with a smile and putting it in the trunk. “There is one thing you can do for me, Aunt.”

Mary smiles. “Something tells me that you aren’t going to ask for another pair of gloves.”

“No.”

“That’s a relief. I had already wrapped that jewellery box that you liked so much. You’ll find it tucked in your case; I had Anna pack it when you were down at dinner. Now what is it I can do for you?”

“Take care of him for me.” Sybil swallows, the thought of leaving her beloved father suddenly too much to bear. How is she to live her life, without him in it? “For my mother. Just … take care of him. He’s all I have.”

“Oh Sybil.” Mary’s face is soft in a way Sybil has never seen it before. “Your father does not need me to take care of him.”

“I think he does. I know he does. He’s my father. For as long as I can remember, it’s always been the two of you. Would you know how to function, without each other?”

“Of course we would. You make us both sound so maudlin and half-finished.”

“No.” Sybil shakes her head, reaches for her aunt’s hand. “That is not what I meant at all.”

###

Despite her father’s protestations, Sybil insists on saying her goodbyes at the train station. It seems fitting to her, to say goodbye to them all in Downton, surrounded by all its memories and childish dreams. When she next returns, she’ll be an adult. Or at least, more of an adult that she is now. Will she even recognise herself, when the next four years are over? She hopes so. She hopes that the next four years will fashion her into someone her parents and family will be proud of, someone she can be proud of.

“Have you got everything? Your papers, letters from the university, money for the boat?” Her father’s reaching for his wallet, tucked inside his coat.

“Father, its fine, really.” Sybil’s gloved hands (her aunt simply couldn’t resist) find her father’s and still his movements. “I have everything I need.”

Her aunt takes a step forwards, pulls her into a full-body hug so out of character for her. “Safe travels, Sybil.” She says. “Make sure you look up my family, as soon as you can. They will take care of you, you know.”

“I know, Aunt. I have their address in my purse.”

“Good.” Mary reaches for a stray curl, tucks it behind Sybil’s ear. “Always be polite, on the boat. You’ll be amazed at how far politeness will take you. Never run away from your heritage, but don’t throw it in people’s faces, either. And write often.”

“All the time, Aunt.” Her aunt smiles again, briefly, steps back so her son can say his goodbyes.

“Make sure you fall in love.” Matthew whispers in her ear. “Make sure you fall in love like our parents fell in love with each other. Find an American with a better name than Weyland, bring him back here and shake things up a bit.”

Sybil smiles, laughs. “You really are your father’s son, aren’t you?”

“So my mother tells me. And I echo her sentiments about writing often, you know. I shall be very bored down in Oxford without regular updates from my cross-Atlantic cousin.” Matthew hugs her then, one of his giant hugs that warm her very bones. “I shall miss you, Sybbie.”

Matthew retreats then, tells his mother that he shall meet her in the cart. Mary, for her part, waves goodbye and steps away, her attention soon drawn by a friend from the village.

“So.” Her father says. “Just the two of us again.”

“So it would seem.”

Her father’s eyes are getting wet, but he hugs her. “I love you, Sybil.”

“I know. I love you too. And I’ll write as often as I can. And telephone, too.”

“I look forward to it.” Her father steps away, stares at her. “What am I to do without both of my Sybils?”

Sybil smiles, kisses her father’s cheek. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine, father.”

Sybil’s so busy making her goodbyes that she scarcely makes her train. Matthew’s nowhere to be seen, no doubt he’s giving her aunt heart palpitations by venturing near a motor vehicle, but as Sybil situates herself in her First Class carriage (her aunt couldn’t resist that, either), she glances out of the window, where her father and her aunt are standing together, on the platform, waving her off. They don’t move as the train leaves the station, but as they fade from view, Sybil swears that she can see her father slip his arm around her aunt’s shoulders, the pair of them watching the train until it disappears from view, and the world and all its fortunes beckon Sybil ever closer. 

 

FIN.


End file.
